


Tokens of a buried past

by Saetha



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Assassin's Creed: Forsaken, Assassin's Creed: Forsaken Spoilers, Caring Haytham Kenway, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Haytham Kenway Lives, Kenway Mansion, M/M, Minor Character Death, Naked Cuddling, OLD TEMPLAR GEEZERS, Panic Attacks, Pillow Talk, Post-Coital Cuddling, soft Shaytham, talk about sibling death, this is very soft and also kinda sad I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 06:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18278114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: “Our bodies are landscapes shaped by death,” Haytham said quietly. “Death dealt to others, death that almost found us. It is a marvel that it hasn’t claimed us yet.”“Always the romantic.” Shay’s lips curved into a small smile, his breath ghosting over Haytham’s skin. “If you are going to explore every single scar on our bodies, we’ll be here all night.”*Haytham survived the fateful clash with his son, but only barely. Decades later, he and Shay receive news that Jenny has died and return to the old Kenway Mansion in London. It's a place filled with memories both good and bad. They take some sorting out.





	Tokens of a buried past

**Author's Note:**

> According to Creed lore, Jenny died in 1805, which would make Haytham 79 in this. I’ve written him and Shay slightly younger – in this case they are around late 60s (Shay), mid-70s (Haytham) in my head. 
> 
> Shoutout, as always, to the fabulous AssCreed Discord and in particular the best of all Shrubs. Y'all are good people.

_The sea came in and washed me out_  
_The way was carved in ice_  
_The tokens of a buried past_  
_The shavings of a heavy life_  
( [ _x_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3EEtpUByNI)) 

  
The letter arrived in the early afternoon.

Haytham stared at the unfamiliar handwriting for a moment before he reached out to open it. A strange and twisting feeling in his stomach warned him of the contents before he even read the words. _Dear Sir, we regret to inform you that your sister, Jennifer Scott, passed away in the early hours of the previous morning…_

The letter had been signed and sent roughly five weeks ago. Haytham took a deep breath as he looked up to the clear skies outside. Jenny’s letters had grown sparse in the recent months as her health had been failing her, and yet he had always clung to the childish conviction that she would somehow be immortal.

“Sir?” There was a knock on the open door accompanying the word. Haytham turned around to look at Shay standing in the doorway.

“Haytham?” Shay frowned, closing the door behind him as he came closer. “Is everything alright?”

“I just received word from London.” Haytham lifted the letter. “Jenny is dead.”

“Haytham…” Shay plucked the letter from his unresisting fingers and quickly scanned the words. “I’m- I’m  so sorry. Is there anything you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.” There seemed to be nothing but a gaping hole where his thoughts would normally be, suddenly filling itself up with concerns faster than he could blink. “I guess I should…it would be good to return to London, now that the mansion is empty. I’ll have to talk to my contacts there, see if I can find someone to take my place here, organise the passage-“

“Slow down, Haytham. Breathe.” Shay tugged at his sleeve, gently guiding him towards a chair. Haytham moved his arm away from him, but sat down nonetheless.

“I’m not old enough to be infirm yet,” he murmured, but it lacked the usual teasing bite.

“Still older than me, and thus completely at my mercy.” The shadow of a grin travelled over Shay’s face in response.

“…but you’re still forced to obey my orders.” Haytham sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, Shay. On the danger of sounding naïve – despite everything, I just never…envisioned a world without her in it.”

“No wonder. She’s been a part of it since you were born, hasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Shay’s quiet presence and companionship helped far more than any words could have.

“I will organise passage to London,” Shay finally said. “You should write to your associates there and organise affairs for our departure here.”

“ _Our_ departure?” Haytham shifted slightly.

“Of course. You’ve told me so many stories about London. And, if I remember correctly, you promised you’d take me to see it in person one day. Seems like it’s time to make good on that promise.”

“I seem to recall that I was fairly intoxicated at the time,” Haytham remarked. “Perhaps you should stay here and make sure that the Templars do not fall into disarray during my absence…”

“The last time I accepted your order to send me far away, I returned only to find you within a hair’s breadth of dying. I won’t leave you again.”

Haytham reached up, unconsciously rubbing the knotted scar at the side of his throat. It had been more than a decade since the day that his son had almost killed him, but the memory of the sharp pain as the blade cut through his skin hadn’t faded. Shay rose from his seat to grasp his hand and guide it away from the wound.

“Besides, an old man such as you needs company, to ensure that he won’t meet with any accidents.”

Haytham snorted.

“You are old enough that the same applies to you too, Shay. There are more than enough Assassins out there who would welcome any opportunity to kill you.”

“In that case, I should make doubly sure to stay close to you.” There was a lilt of laughter in Shay’s voice, before he grew serious again. “In all seriousness, a change of scenery might do us both good. I would welcome some time away.”

“Resistance to your arguments seems entirely futile.” Haytham forced a smile on his face. “In which case we should ensure that we depart as soon as possible.”

*

It was almost frightening to see how little the mansion at Queen Anne’s Square had changed, despite having been burned down over half a century ago. Even the smell was strangely similar, if a little stale after over two months with only the household staff looking in once a week. Haytham only had to close his eyes for a moment for the precious few memories he still retained from his childhood to come flooding back. It was home and yet it wasn’t; there was no name that Haytham could put to the emotions running through him.

Dinner was a quiet affair, with few words being said as they both took in the feeling of the mansion around them. It wasn’t until they had moved upstairs to what had once been Haytham’s old bedroom that something inside him began to move again. Whoever had been in charge of the minutiae of rebuilding the mansion after the fire, had seen to it that the old house had been replicated almost exactly like it had once been, including Haytham’s room.

“So, this is where you grew up?” Shay walked along the walls, fingers almost touching the wooden panelling on them.

“Pretty much, yes. The house has been rebuilt, but it is almost exactly like I remember it.” Haytham was still standing close to the doorway, feeling a sudden wariness when it came to setting foot into the room. The weight of the memories seemed almost overwhelming.

“I wish I’d had anything like that as a kid. I can’t believe this entire room was yours.” Shay laughed, his steps still quick despite his age, as he walked back and forth.

“It was. Jenny’s was next door.” He still hadn’t entered his sister’s room since they had arrived. It was where she had died.

“It must’ve been exciting, growing up here.” Shay came to a stop in front of him, mustering Haytham with a critical eye. His worry, displayed all throughout the trip so far, had begun to annoy Haytham. “Especially when you had friends over. This is the perfect playground for a troupe of unruly boys.”

“I…never really had any friends growing up. It was just Jenny and me.” Haytham didn’t look at him.

“No friends?” Shay frowned. “But-“

“None. It doesn’t matter.”

Haytham took a deep breath, his lungs suddenly clamouring for breath. All at once, the air in the house seemed too heavy, too stifled. He turned on his heels without a word, knocking against the doorframe in his haste to step outside.

“Haytham?” Shay called out behind him, but Haytham didn’t stop. He wasn’t by far as fast as he had once been, but still fast enough to make it outside to the garden before Shay could reach him (although, perhaps, he had simply let him leave).

He came to a halt under the largest of the trees in the garden, still standing after all these years with its branches stretching into the dusky sky of the late evening. Haytham remembered looking up into its canopy when he was a boy, marvelling at how tall it had seemed to him back then. He must have tried to climb it more than once, but the lowest branches had always been too high up for him to reach on his own, and Jenny had refused to help him.

His fingers traced the patterns in the old tree bark, until they found an irregularity. The remnants of a deep gash in the wood that had grown out, but never disappeared over the years. Haytham could hear Shay’s footsteps approaching behind him, an ever-so-slight hitch in their rhythm that told him that his bad knee was paining him again. He didn’t turn around, eyes fixed on the tree instead.

“My sister once threw a sword at this tree in her anger over my father’s refusal to teach her how to fight. Ripped it right out of my hands. It got stuck so deeply that I couldn’t wedge it out on my own.”

“She must’ve had quite a temper. At least if she was at all similar to her brother.” Shay stepped into his field of view, looking up the tree the same as Haytham had done a few moments ago.

“She did. But in this case, she was right. There is no telling how different our lives would’ve been if Father had just taught her to fight the same as he did me.” Haytham turned to face Shay. Some part of his inner turmoil must’ve been written on his face, as Shay reached out to touch him, only to abandon the movement halfway through.

“Are you angry?” he asked.

“I am _furious_.” Haytham admitted, his voice hoarse. “I rarely allow myself to dwell on the past. I have never been one for _what if_ s. But when I do, all I feel is an overwhelming rage – at some of the decisions my father made, at some decisions I made, at life, at fate, at Birch, at _everything_.” His fingers dug deeply into the rough bark of the tree.

“The past cannot be changed.” This time, Shay continued with his motion and carefully placed his hand on Haytham’s arm, giving him plenty of time to move away if he wanted. “But you should allow yourself to feel your anger once in a while.”

Haytham snorted at that, but it was a soft sound rather than derisive.

“Is this an invitation for sparring?” He raised his eyebrows.

“No. Although I could still defeat you in a match any day.” Shay’s grip tightened just a little on Haytham’s arm, his thumb running up and down the fabric.

“I should have you punished for insulting your Grand Master.” Haytham stepped away from the tree, the echo of his sister’s voice still knocking around in his head.

“Mhm, please. You know how much I love being punished by you.” Shay smiled suggestively. It was just on this side of bordering on ridiculous, but it served its purpose of helping to dispel the dark clouds of anger still hanging over Haytham’s mind.

“Does everything I say get turned into the suggestion of performing sexual acts with you?”

“You mentioned ‘sparring’ first. Your fault.” Shay laughed. Haytham only rolled his eyes. He took a few steps back, looking around the garden that he had spent so many hours playing in as a child. They both knew that whatever was haunting Haytham had only been postponed rather than truly resolved. The storm was still broiling inside him, turning his thoughts this way and that, yanking him back and forth between regret, fury, and a variety of other emotions.

“We should go back inside,” Haytham said. “It will be night soon.” There was a beginning chill in the early summer air as the wind picked up.

“As you say, sir.” Age had done nothing to lessen Shay’s insolence, a fact that Haytham was both annoyed by and oddly grateful for.

Two of the bedrooms had been readied for them – Haytham’s old room and one of the guest rooms. Haytham ignored his own room and moved straight down the hall to the other one, Shay trailing behind. He eyed the bed critically, testing the mattress with a frown.

“Do you think this will be able to hold both of us?” he asked. “I mean. I know we aren’t as…exuberant as we used to be, but I would still like to be able to do more than just lay flat on my back without fear of us breaking cleaning through.”

“I’m sure it’ll hold.” Haytham sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, grimacing as pain shot through his back from an unfortunate movement. “Were you planning any…particularly strenuous activities?”

“Oh, you know me, sir. I always have ideas.” Shay threw himself down on the other side of the bed, only to yelp in pain when he jostled his dislocated-one-too-many-times shoulder. For a moment both of them were groaning and pressing their knuckles into their skin to cope with their various aches.

“Do any of these ideas involve reversing the effects of aging?” Haytham sighed and rubbed his neck.

“Sorry, sir.” Shay came up behind him, covering Haytham’s hands with his own as he began to massage his skin. “Don’t have much on that front. But…” His hands moved forward, onto Haytham’s chest. “…I have a few other ideas that you might find pleasant.” They had the house to themselves, as Haytham had dismissed any of the remaining staff for the rest of the night.

“Mhm.” Haytham caught one of Shay’s hands, stilling it in its movement. He moved into the touch when Shay leaned forward so that his chest was pressed against Haytham’s back. Shay smiled and planted a kiss to his cheek. Once upon a time, when they had both been younger, they would have pulled their clothes off as fast as possible, eager to leave their marks on each other’s skin, to test and probe and see where exactly their limits lay. Nowadays, they had the luxury of plenty of time and knowing each other down to the last intimate detail. Sleeping with each other, at least today, was a slow and leisurely affair of drawn-out touches and whispered encouragements. Oh, but Haytham would never tire of the little sounds that Shay made when he spilled hot over his hands, or the feeling of his tongue on Haytham’s skin.

They lay next to each other as the afterglow slowly faded, limbs tangled in their blankets and clothes. Haytham’s gaze travelled to the door and then back to Shay. He sighed a little, shifting into a more comfortable position.

“You keep looking at the door. Expecting someone?” There was a comfortable ease with which Shay turned around and put his head on Haytham’s chest, just like he’d done countless times before. Haytham shrugged.

“A part of me expects my father to come around the corner any moment, asking what I’m doing,” he admitted. “Which is strange. I haven’t thought of him this vividly in many years.”

“Your…father. Of all the answers I’d expected, this wasn’t the one.” Shay laughed. “Still, it’s to be expected, I guess. Since this is where you grew up and all.” Then he grew quiet. “What do you think he would’ve said if he knew you now?”

“I would rather not think about it,” Haytham said stiffly. They had both heard and remembered Adéwalé’s statement from so long ago.

“Sorry.” Shay turned his head until he could look into Haytham’s face. He reached up, his fingers tracing across it, from the deep wrinkles next to his eyes to the fine lines around his mouth.

“You’re beautiful.” His voice was quiet. Of the two of them, Shay had always been the one to hand out compliments more freely. Haytham sighed and turned his head slightly, so that Shay had to stretch to reach him.

“I’m serious.” Shay frowned. “Of course, you aren’t quite the looker you were twenty years ago, but…”

“But what?” Against his will, Haytham felt a smile pulling at his lips. “Be careful with what you’re going to say, Shay Cormac.”

“…but all these lines, these wrinkles, are a testament to the fact that you’ve lived. That you’ve _survived_ , for so many years. That you let me spend these years together with you. Or, well, the majority of them.”

Haytham was quiet for a moment, taking the time to drink in and think about Shay’s words.

“I am glad to have you beside me,” was what he finally said. Shay laughed, a quiet, rueful laugh. It took him a moment before he spoke again.

“Do you know that I’ve never really forgiven you?” he asked. “For sending me away when you would have needed me the most.”

“Shay…”

“No. You sent me away, knowing fully well that there was little chance that you would survive. I appreciate that you wanted to spare me, but you should’ve given me a _choice_.”

“If I had given you a choice, you would be dead.” _Both of us, most likely_ , Haytham thought. _That, or my son. Neither of which is acceptable_.

“You don’t know that.” Shay insisted, his words filled with his own special brand of stubbornness. “And instead of letting me choose, instead of giving _us_ a chance, you took the coward’s way out and almost got yourself killed.” There was an echo of the same anger in his voice that had led him to shout his throat raw at Haytham as soon as it had been certain that he would survive after the wound to his throat. They’d had this argument before, many, many times, although the accusation of cowardice still rankled. Not as much as it had the first time, true, when they hadn’t spoken for days. But still enough to smart.

“If protecting those I love makes me a coward, then so be it.”

“Except that you didn’t protect me. Not the way I wanted to be protected.” They fell into the argument with almost terrifying ease. “Did you realise that I still dream of it? How often I close my eyes and all I can see is you on the ground, with your hand clutched to your throat and bleeding out in front of me?”

The pain in Shay’s voice cut more deeply than any anger could have. Haytham’s memories of the moment were still hazy, clouded by exhaustion, pain and almost-dying, but Shay had told him enough times what had happened. How he had returned to New York earlier than expected, after catching wind of Connor’s plans through some spies on his ship. How he had raced through the fort, only to find Haytham and his son locked in battle, Connor about to stab his father in the throat. That the blade finding its mark fully was only prevented by a bullet from Shay’s pistol, giving Haytham enough time to crawl away. How Shay had dragged him to safety, Haytham flickering in and out of consciousness, with Connor too injured to follow behind. How his son had survived and later killed Lee, when Haytham was still bound to his sickbed and Shay unwilling to part from his side for more than a few hours, in a painfully ironic mirror image of the time after Birch’s death.

“I wish I could take these images out of your head.” It was far more sincere of an apology than a simple ‘I’m sorry’ would have been. Shay sighed, his hand moving from the old wound on Haytham’s left wrist up his shoulder, his thumb almost touching the scar on Haytham’s throat.

“What is done, is done. And there is nothing we can do to change it now, no matter how much we might wish for it.” Shay shifted and turned his head, so that he was able to kiss the rough, grey hair on Haytham’s chest. “I am glad that you are still alive. And here with me.”

“Me too.” Now it was Haytham’s turn to reach out and run a finger lightly down the naked curve of Shay’s back, revelling in the goose bumps that were left in the wake of his touch. His fingers came to rest on the ragged scar across Shay’s hip, its edges raised and bumpy.

“Our bodies are landscapes shaped by death,” he said quietly. “Death dealt to others, death that almost found us. It is a marvel that it hasn’t claimed us yet.”

“Always the romantic.” Shay’s lips curved into a small smile, his breath ghosting over Haytham’s skin. “If you are going to explore every single scar on our bodies, we’ll be here all night.”

“Not the worst way to spend a night.” Haytham’s hands moved up across Shay’s back again, resting briefly on where the bullet had left his shoulder on the faithful night that the Assassins had turned against him. His touch came to a halt in Shay’s hair, its roots still damp with sweat from earlier.

“Old age really _has_ turned you mellow,” Shay teased.

“Perhaps it has,” Haytham agreed, although he could feel a smile pulling at his own lips. “And perhaps it is only this house making me slightly sentimental.”

“Let’s hope so. Wouldn’t want to give anyone the impression that you actually have a soul now, would we.” Shay earned himself a light slap on the shoulders with his words that he accepted with a laugh. He rolled from his stomach back to his side, fingers drawing nonsense shapes through the hair on Haytham’s chest. Haytham grew serious again as his thoughts began to wander once more.

“Sometimes I wonder about the strange twists of fate on the road that this family has been taken on. I might…I might even have grandchildren. I won’t ever know.” It wasn’t like either he or Connor had softened with age. If has son had managed to produce offspring of his own, he would never know, especially since he had expressly forbidden the few remaining Templars in the colonies from spying on or going after his son’s family. It was an uneasy truce that had been established between them in recent years, one that Haytham knew would end as soon as one of them died.

“Perhaps.” Shay was quiet for a moment. “And perhaps you can take comfort in the fact that your family line will not be extinguished with your death. Grandchildren or no, you still have people who love you in this world. Or, at least one.” He added the last one with a little grin.

“Who is the romantic now?” Haytham’s fingers traced circles on Shay’s skin, losing himself in the rare thoughts of _what might have been_ -s.

“Your gloominess is infectious.” Shay sighed. “Perhaps we should simply go to sleep.”

“Mhm.” Haytham did indeed feel tired. His exhaustion was amplified by the fact that they were finally lying in a proper bed for the first time in weeks.

Except, sleep wouldn’t come. He didn’t know how long he spent lying awake, staring at the darkness inside his own eyelids with his thoughts running in circles. The old mansion assaulted him with memories, and once set off, the avalanche of pictures just didn’t stop. He could feel Shay shifting and fidgeting next to him, evidently struggling to go to sleep himself. Haytham allowed himself a small sigh of relief when Shay’s movements finally stilled. At least one of them would get some rest tonight.

“ _No_.” Shay sat up with a shout on his lips, arms flailing when they couldn’t free themselves from the blankets fast enough. “No!”

“Shay.” Haytham was up within seconds, pulling the blanket away so that Shay wouldn’t hurt himself. He didn’t try to touch him, didn’t try to come anywhere close – experience had taught him that touch would only worsen the situation. “Shay, listen to me.”

Even as he spoke, he reached out to light the candle on the nightstand, fumbling in the dark until the small flame finally flickered to life. Shay was breathing heavily, hands balled into fists as he stared sightlessly ahead.

“You’re safe, Shay. You’re safe. I’m here.” He didn’t stop talking (sometimes the sound of his voice seemed to help, sometimes it didn’t) as he got out of the bed and vanished into the neighbouring bathroom, returning moments later with a bowl filled with ice cold water. Putting it close enough to be within Shay’s reach, he retreated again, never stopping with his reassurances.

He could hear the water splashing as Shay reached for it, his deep and ragged breathing the only other sound in the room as the minutes ticked by.

“Thank you, sir.” Shay’s voice was still shaky, but no longer that of a wounded animal filled with blind panic. Haytham only nodded, taking the bowl back to the bathroom. When he returned, he saw Shay still sitting on the bed, balled up hands pressed against his eyes. “And All Hallows’ Eve isn’t even close,” he said with a crooked smile.

“All this talk of death seems to have stirred up things we would both rather forget.” Haytham nodded. He went back to bed, lying on his back as he looked up at Shay. After their long years together, there was no need for him to extend the offer of physical comfort with words. Shay knew that it would be given whenever he asked for it. He looked down at Haytham now, chest still heaving slightly as the water on his face was drying. Finally, he closed his eyes and reached out, his fingers slowly folding into Haytham’s.

“I wish I wouldn’t dream,” he murmured, lying back down. Haytham pulled him close, until the weight of Shay’s body was pressed up against his.

“This is pathetic. Sometimes I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you putting up with,” Shay gestured up and down himself, encompassing both his ageing body and devious mind that would never stop sending him into panics out of nowhere, “all _this_.”

“If you refer to yourself as ‘pathetic’ one more time, I will have you tried for besmirching the Templar name.” Haytham pulled him a little closer. “That’s an order, by the way.”

Shay was about to protest, but Haytham silenced him with a stern glance.

“Your body, your mind…they are testament of everything that you’ve been through, everything that you’ve survived, pages upon pages of stories, if anyone would care to write them down. I wouldn’t exchange either of them for the world.”

“You’re stealing my words from earlier.” The laugh was almost real.

“That does not make them any less true.” Of everything and everyone he had left in this world, Shay’s steady presence was the thing he longed for the most, although it had taken him decades to admit it to himself. Perhaps age really _had_ mellowed him. At least a little.

The next day, Haytham set to work at the foot of the large tree in the garden, digging a small hole for his sister’s ashes, as a fine drizzle began raining down around them. And if he finally gave in once he was done, the tears from his eyes mixing with the raindrops in the sky, then nobody would know. Just like nobody would see the way Shay grasped his hand and held on to it for long after the wetness on his cheeks had dried.

 

 

 

 


End file.
